


Applefic

by greerwatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the years....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those curious about Laurie’s age:  he is perhaps five or six in Chapter One, eight or nine in Chapter Two (attending a boarding prep school), and twelve or thirteen in Chapter Three.  Timing is tighter thereafter, and clearer from the text.

When they moved to the cottage, it was not his grandfather Laurie missed most.  Of course, after they had gone to live with him, the straight old soldier had quickly become utterly familiar, his strictures on courtesy and courage a daily commonplace.   _Of course_ , he missed Granddaddy. 

And he missed home.  For all that it had been explained to him carefully by the lawyer, he did not think it fair that they should have to move.  Yet the house where he had lived for almost as long as he could remember—the house that Mummy had grown up in, that should have gone to Uncle Raymond, if he hadn’t died in the Great War—was, by the perversity of a Victorian will, left to a cousin, simply because he was a man.  Of course, anyone could see why Second Cousin Lionel (whom he had never met) would want Granddaddy’s house to live in himself; but the cottage, whose purchase had been authorized by the trustees of Laurie’s legacy, was instantly and obviously _different_ :  it was smaller, for one thing.  Also, there was a stained glass flower in the front door; and a different carpet in the hall; and the tiles in the kitchen had a strange new pattern.  And he missed the pencilled marks beside the door of his bedroom—the ones that showed, inch by inch, how tall he had grown.

Nevertheless, in the cottage Mummy was still there; and all Laurie’s own things had made the move with them, and much of the familiar furniture.  With a new school and new friends (and even the promise of maybe a puppy, if he was good), there was hardly time to miss Granddaddy, in a place where he had never lived with them.  The cottage was certainly cosy; and the new housekeeper, Mrs Timmings, made a smashing steak-and-kidney pie for their first dinner, with apple pie for afters. 

That first night, though....  That first night, there was no friendly tapping of apple twigs on the pane; and Laurie did not wake up to a windowful of billowing pink.  That first morning, he did not reach up to open the latch and push open the glass, and lean to fill his face with blossom.  So it was the apple tree that Laurie missed ... more than the old home, more than Granddaddy.  The blue spring sky through his bedroom window told him, with sunny finality, that his life had, once again, changed forever.

Later that day he found the damson at the foot of the garden, and climbed its crooked branches into a froth of white lace.  When he went away to school the following year, he took several jars of its jam with him.  They were very welcome—rather more than apple sauce would have been.  So, in that regard, the damson was a fair swap, and just as good to climb.


	2. Chapter 2

Laurie pulled down the window and leaned out—much further than his mother would ever have permitted, but she was not, of course, there to see.  The train was curving round the last bend on its approach to the village:  he could see the platform.  Probably no one was there to meet him (the train was early); but, having seen the station house to his satisfaction, he prudently pulled his head back in, just in case.

The copy of _Comic Cuts_ he left in the carriage.  Having one to read was a rare treat, since the school did not approve any more than his mother (though both considered _The Boys’ Own Paper_ to be quite acceptable).  Still, he had managed to save a few pennies from his allowance to spend on his way home.  When he had changed trains, there had been time to go in the shop:  besides the comic, he had indulged in an ice; and the sad remains of a bar of chocolate were squashed into the pocket of his blazer. 

It did not occur to Laurie to check that his trunk was safely taken from the baggage car:  he simply handed over his ticket, and stretched his legs with a run up the hill, slowing to a walk only at the sight of the church, which he passed sedately.  Round the bend, though, Miss Atkinson’s apple tree leant its branches over the pavement.  Out of sheer glee at being home for the hols, he leapt and grabbed at the lowest, setting the leaves dancing and codlings bobbing.

Ahead, he could see their cottage, small and low and old, behind the hedge.  His mother was just coming through the gate with her hat on, turned away, settling the latch.  Only the last clatter of his shoes warned her as he ran suddenly up and threw his arms around her waist. 

“Oh, my!” she gasped, turning in his grip.  “Oh, my goodness, Laurie!  How you’ve grown!”

He let go, and beamed up at her.

“The train was early?” she asked.  It was too obvious for him to bother to answer.  “Well, let me look at you.”  She stood him off at arms’ length, and quickly reached for a handkerchief, dampening it at her lips before scrubbing at the stain near his nose.  “I can see you enjoyed your journey home.”

He was bouncing with enthusiasm; and she forwent her impulse to head for the station and check that his baggage was safely on its way after him.

“How was term?”

“Great!” he said.  He pushed open the gate ahead of her, and ran up the path.  “How’s Gyp?”

“In the shed!” she called after him; and he veered past the huge cedar, heading around the house to the back garden.

Shaking her head, she went back indoors to tell Mrs Timmings that he had arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simon and his dog, Sally, are original characters created by my sister, fawatson. They have appeared in several of her stories, and are used here by permission.

It was the last day of the hols. 

Simon’s school went back a week earlier.  He didn’t board but took the train to the nearest town each day, rising at dawn (as farmers do) and returning in the evening.  Still, though he was around the village, much of his time was needed on the farm; and a final day free was a joy to both boys.  They spent the morning happily tramping with their dogs, shared their packed lunches, and might have stayed out till sunset; but Mrs Odell had suggested Laurie ask Simon back—and an extra pint of cream had been ordered from the dairy.  Mrs Timmings always made an extra special tea when there were guests (even when it was only Simon); and her cakes were legendary.  So the boys came back to the village with time to spare.  They dawdled along the lane.

It was Simon who leapt lightly up to the low brick wall outside the Howletts’ cottage and ran along it, with his collie running alongside on the pavement below, looking up anxiously.  There was a sharp tapping.  Mrs Howlett scowled through her front window (women could get so fussed over so little); and he jumped down.  Sally sniffed him carefully; and he patted her absently, as he and Laurie burst into howls of laughter.

Miss Atkinson’s wall was breast-high and old, its stone patched with lichen.  There was no obvious sign of anyone in the garden.  The boys pressed themselves to the wall on their toes to get more height.  Sally whined, and pawed at Simon’s leg, and tried to thrust her nose between him and the wall to push him away; but he took a good look.  No:  it was clear.  Nor were there sounds from inside; nor the glimpse of shadows shifting behind the glass. 

“She’s gone to the shops,” said Laurie, with a faint scorn for such plebeian pursuits. 

“Dare you run _her_ wall, then!”

Never one to resist a good dare, Laurie hauled himself up, balancing on the uneven stone.  Gyp let out a yip of excitement.  He raced along the pavement, bolted back, and jumped up with both paws on the stone.  He was a tall dog.  Laurie looked at the paws only inches below his feet.

“You want to come up, too, old chap?”

Simon hauled the Airedale down, grabbing his collar.  “Don’t encourage him,” he said.  “He might even try.”

As Gyp barked eagerly, Laurie walked the few feet towards the overhanging, laden branches of Miss Atkinson’s apple tree.  It was an early cropper; but she had not yet had the gardener by to pick the fruit.  He twisted off a large, rosy apple, tossed it down to Simon, and got himself another.  Then he jumped down.

The boys walked slowly along, their attention on the fruit, devouring it in mere bites.  They left the cores in the gutter.

  


It was the barking of the dog that had caught her attention, Miss Atkinson told Mrs Odell when she came round.  Laurie wasn’t there.  He had gone to set Simon on his road to the farm; and the two boys were saying lingering, tonguefast farewells on the other side of the village.

“He could have fallen,” she said earnestly.  “That wall is not in the best repair.”  (Sally would have agreed; not that the boys would have paid any more attention to the woman than they had to the dog.)  Almost as an afterthought, Miss Atkinson brought up the matter of the apples, having come upon the cores as she walked over.

So Laurie returned to a scolding.  His mother pointed out, repeatedly, that there were plenty of apples in the pantry.  (He forebore to tell her that scrumped ones always tasted better:  it was true; but he knew better than to say so.)  She did _not_ complain that eating just before tea would spoil his appetite, for it was patently untrue:  the two boys had quite demolished the plate of ham sandwiches, and made heavy inroads into both the Battenburg and the Victoria sponge.  Instead, she said, with emphasis, that she was sure that such behaviour would never be tolerated by his housemaster at school.

This was, of course, true—less for the trespass or the theft, than for the sake of good relations with the locals.  At school, if he’d been caught, he would have got the cane.  Which, at least, would be quick and sharp and done with, Laurie thought, as his mother ordered him over the road in shame to stammer an apology.


	4. Chapter 4

It was warm and cosy in front of the fire.  They didn’t always have one:  it depended a lot on how much money his mother had in hand. Laurie was old enough to grasp this in principle, though he could never quite tell in advance which way his mother would decide.  It was the Christmas hols, though.  Most days they had a fire, at least for a few hours in the evening.

He lay on the rug in front of the flames, staring dreamily as they flickered.  His mother invariably told him that he was too close and should put the fire screen across; but, if he did that, he couldn’t see the colours in the flames as clearly.

It had been a good term.  He was, he thought, at the perfect year in school:  no longer fagging for any of the seniors; but not yet suffering the responsibilities of the older boys.  He no longer did prep with all the juniors, but shared the privacy of a study.  (Carter, in particular, was quite a decent chap.)  He’d scored the winning goal at footer, and won the inter-house cup for his team—well, only for the second team, but that wasn’t bad.

Next term, he thought, would be even better.  There was the school play, for one thing.  He didn’t especially favour the choice:  the hero was a wishy-washy type, mooning about over a girl.  However, there would be sword-fighting—there always was with Shake­speare—and he planned to try out for one of the meaty fencing roles and have some fun.  Well, that was assuming he was chosen, of course; but he didn’t see why he wouldn’t be.  He never had any trouble learning the set poetry in the Lit. class.

There was sweetness on his lips.  He licked them, tasting the fruit.  Of course, it wasn’t Christmas fare—not yet.  That was still being baked.  (Well, except for the cakes, which had been wrapped and in storage for several months.)  Dessert tonight had simply been apple pie, left over from yesterday. 

He considered.  No, it was not fair to say ‘simply apple pie’.  There was nothing simple about Mrs Timmings’ pies, whatever fruit she put in them.  They had apple pie at school and it was a pale shadow of the ones he got at home.

Mrs Timmings had been baking all day.  He’d helped her.  Shortbread and sausage rolls and mince pies, the former now cooling on a rack and the latter in the hot oven.

For that matter, there was chopped apple in the mince, too.  He’d spooned it out of the crock and seen the chunks, along with the peel and nuts and suet.  With the pastry-lined cups filled ... not quite to the brim, because of leakage ... he’d helped her fit the lids on, and prick them with a fork.  Apple today and mince tomorrow, and Christmas pud the day after, flamed with brandy.  He sighed.  Life was good.


	5. Chapter 5

Laurie looked out the window to see a strangely glittering world.  The village lay under snow and ice; his train had been cancelled.  The Head of Jepson’s House would be back late after the Christmas hols—which was obviously _wrong_ and smacked of uncharacteristic irresponsibility—but there was no help for it.  Until the lines were cleared, he could not leave the village; and that was that.  A telegram had been sent. 

Going through to the hall, he whistled for Gyp.  The big dog came lolloping eagerly from the kitchen.  Both of them had heavy coats:  Laurie needed only to grab his cap and feel in his pockets for gloves, even as he opened the door.  Gyp bounded out to deeper snow than he had ever seen in his life, boggled belly-deep, and then took to high leaps to make progress to the gate.  Laurie, with mere overshoes, felt the chill through his trousers, and knew they would be soaking by the time they got home.  He could, he thought, have done with snowshoes.  He had no idea of the details of their construction, nor how they were deployed; but he had certainly seen sketches accompanying stories in _The Boys’ Own Paper_ , back in the days when he still read it.  Right now, they seemed a marvellous invention.

Half wading, he made his way down to the gate.  It proved impossible to open, both for the drifts and the frozen bolt; and, in the end, he and Gyp both clambered over.  Across the road, the old apple tree bent lower under its burden than it ever had with a full crop of fruit, each dark branch bearing a crown of white thicker than the wood.  He passed it, rounding into the road so that he would not knock snow onto his head.  Slowly, they made their way down towards the church.  The gravestones were nearly buried; and the sexton was clearing the path with a very large shovel.

I think we have one in the shed, Laurie thought.  When we get back, I should clear _our_ path.  I can’t leave it for Mother.

There seemed no point in essaying the hill down to the square, let alone trying for the common.  Even coming this short distance, he found that unaccustomed muscles were aching.

“Want to go home, old boy?” he asked Gyp.  The dog did not, as usual, dance around, looking eagerly onward.  Like his master, he seemed uncommonly ready to return.

“Right, then,” Laurie decided.  “Come on!”

A gust of wind shook the old apple on the return journey, and it showered them with snow.  Gyp gave himself a quick shake, which dislodged only the loose flakes.  Laurie simply brushed a hand over his face, hoping to remove as much as he could before it melted.

Once again, they clambered over the gate.

Laurie ploughed round the side of the house, while Gyp bounded ahead to the back door; but this was not his master’s destination.  The dog turned in his tracks, and found him hauling open the shed door—mercifully leeward, and not as badly drifted up.  Having located the shovel, Laurie then plied it around the rear of the house, carved a path round to the front, cleared the steps, and made his way along the path to the gate.  His very vigour kept him warm.  It took much heaving to break the ice on the latch; but he did finally succeed in opening it:  if the postman could get through, at least he’d be able to make his deliveries. 

With Gyp bouncing happily at his heels, Laurie returned the shovel to the shed.  For a moment, he thought to go in.  Then, looking at the still pristine blanket over the garden, he was seized with an impish, childish glee.  Stooping to roll up a handful of snow, he formed a firm ball and _threw_.  It sailed far down the hidden lawn, nearly to the old damson. 

Barking with joy, Gyp chased the prize in huge leaps.  When he reached the spot where it had fallen and nosed around, though, he could find nothing but a broken snowy surface.  He turned to his master, with a puzzled yelp.

Laughing, Laurie stooped to make another snowball, and sent his dog chasing over the garden in repeated fruitless forays until finally the Airedale returned to him, panting.

Suddenly, he could feel how chilled his legs were.  The sun was getting low.  It got dark early at this time of year; and tea would be ready soon.  “Come on, boy.  Let’s go in,” said Laurie, and prudently led the way to the back door, to go in and change to dry clothes, and eat buttered muffins and baked apple on the rug by the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that, even though the plan of the ficlet series had been in my mind from the start, there was a gap of about a year between my writing Chapters Four and Five.


	6. Chapter 6

They had sat through a three-hour service mourning the crucifixion.  Outside the sun shone; and there were daffodils along the wall of the church yard.  A bunch of hyacinths, brilliant blue in their vase, drew the eye to one of the newer gravestones; and, on the walk home, as they passed Miss Atkinson’s apple tree, the bending boughs bore the promise of blossom.  Laurie walked home beside his mother, her arm slipped through his, feeling a congruity between the sermon and the resurrection of spring—and the irrelevance of both to the current state of the world. 

Luncheon awaited:  sliced tongue, and a salad of grated carrot with mayonnaise.  Not Laurie’s favourite; but years of school dinners and a healthy appetite made short work of the food on his plate.  His mother talked throughout the meal, nattering on about last term and next term, and whether Laurie might make the boat team this year.  Her son, who had read more of the previous day’s newspaper than the society pages, mulled the implications of the pact with Poland and listened with half an ear, which was all that was needed to respond to whatever it was she had said.  His mother still believed in “peace in our time”.  Laurie had shared her hopes when he returned home for Christmas.  Now, with the Hilary term over, he found her naïveté irritating.  The Germans were arming; and all the conciliatory speeches in Europe could not conceal the truth.

He would, of course, return to Oxford at the end of the month:  there would surely be no developments before then.  It might even be a year or more, by which time he should have graduated.  In either case, he would join up immediately.  (The notorious Oxford Union debate had been long before his time; but he knew which side _he_ would have taken.)

After lunch, he went out:  to take a walk, he said, and took Gyp along for the company.  As he left, he raided the bowl of fruit in the sitting room and slipped an apple in the left pocket of his trousers:  the right already held _The Phaedrus of Plato_.  He could read it in his room, he supposed, as he did in term; but, as in the hols when he was still at school, he felt a curious reluctance to open it when his mother was around.  She did _usually_ knock before entering, but sometimes forgot, if it was during the day when she might assume him dressed and decent.

There was a small wood to the south of the village where he was in the habit of walking.  The owner did not keep game, and did not mind a large dog lolloping round, eager to fetch a thrown stick, and then haring off after any intriguing scent.  Laurie made his way through the trees, calling now and then when Gyp disappeared too long from sight.  He circled the dell of bluebells, hazy with indigo buds, and continued more or less on a straight line for the brook on the other side.  There were patches of primroses, cream and blond, and the first furled fronds of ferns.  He might, he thought, pick a posy to take back with him for his mother:  she would like that, and make quite a fuss of picking out the best vase to hold them, and fill it and arrange them, and set it out on the window ledge in the sitting room:  she appreciated these little attentions; and it cost little to please her.  He must remember before he returned home.

The bank was dry in the dappled sun, and he found his usual place.  Recognizing his master’s habit, Gyp came up and flopped near his feet.  Laurie began to read.  Now and then, the dog stirred and rose, caught by a rustle; cast round curiously; and then settled back down in a new spot.  Each interruption reached Laurie belatedly.  He looked up to locate his dog, kept half an eye on him until he returned, and then reached out absently to ruffle the curly fur between the dog’s ears before turning the page.

It was different back then, he thought.  If he had attended a Greek _symposium_ , it would not have been like Charles’s party, from which he had fled so ignominiously.  Even months later, it embarrassed him—both the party and its guests, and his own reaction.  He had lost any pretense of sharing the _savoir faire_ of his host and betrayed himself an unsophisticated boy.  At the same time, he knew he had been right to leave:  he had his ideals, which should not be betrayed.  It would not have been like that with Ralph, he thought, and lost himself (and his place in the book) as he slipped into the old daydream.  Current events shaped his imagination; and he fancied their meeting sometime in the war-to-come:  in uniform, in battle, in gallant comradeship to the end, a modern Theban Band.

It was a good hour later that he recalled the apple and reached into his pocket.  It was a Cox’s orange pippin, the golden skin roughly brushed with red, speckled tawny, and shaded with russeting round the stem.  Where his fingers pressed, the skin wrinkled:  the apple was withered slightly from storage over the winter.  But it was otherwise still in excellent condition; and he bit eagerly into its warm creamy flesh:  not as juicy as it would have been back in November, but rich and mellow and winy.  There was no better apple than a good Cox.

He finished it to the core, and flicked the stem into the water.  There was a tinge to the light as gold as the apple:  it was time he headed home for tea.

He slipped the book in his pocket and whistled to Gyp.

He quite forgot the primroses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Six was not only written to continue the "Applefic" series begun in 2012, but also to fulfil the [maryrenaultfics](http) LiveJournal community's 2014 autumn prompt: to write a story in honour of the 75th anniversary of the start of World War II.


	7. Chapter 7

Laurie took the short route:  along the path from the vicarage to the churchyard, round past the gravestones, and out of the lychgate to the lane.  From there, he was intimate with every step of the route.  Still, the paving was old, and had settled into the ground at slight but varied angles:  he had to keep his eye on the path, lest he trip.  Though nowadays he did not normally need his stick (did not, indeed, need it now, but held it lightly), still his leg was susceptible to jarring.

Along this lane he had skipped as a child, run heedless as a boy, strode as a youth:  he had changed, and it had not. 

He dipped his head as he passed under the blooming apple tree.

Well, the village was not unchanged, he thought.  Not _quite_ eternal, as it once had seemed to him.  Old Miss Atkinson had died in 1943, asleep in her bed.  He turned to look over the old stone wall, and noted that someone must have been billeted in her cottage:  there was the corner of a line of washing, and pansies in the window box.

He crossed the road, as empty of traffic as it had ever been, and set his hand to the gate of his own cottage.  The lawn had already been mown at least once this season:  the grass lay cut in stripes, just as neatly as it had been each week before the war.  Mr Trevor’s doing, Laurie presumed:  vaguely, he recalled that their usual jobbing gardener had been called up in ’41.

All was as it should be.  The cedar still towered darkly over the low cottage roof.  The door still shone with wax.  It would open, thought Laurie; and his mother would welcome him in, neat in her linen dress and cardigan, small pearls in her ears, faintly fragrant of eau-de-cologne.

The door opened to a whiff of tobacco.

“We saw you through the window,” said Mr Trevor genially.  He held out his hand, and Laurie shook it automatically.

“Come in, come in,” said a woman’s voice from behind.  “It’s so good to see you again, Laurie, before we leave.”

In his occasional visits to the village over the past few years, Laurie had, of course, met the Trevors several times; but he had always contrived to do so at the vicarage—not unaided by the pride his mother took in the hospitality expected of her in her new position.  The truth was, he had not been able to bear the thought of sitting as a guest in his own living-room.  Now, though, he was ushered through and offered tea, and knew that it would be rude not to accept.

Mrs Trevor disappeared to the kitchen.  The men swapped tales of the recent D-Day celebrations, filling time until a faint whistle could be heard from the rear of the house.  Mrs Trevor reappeared with teapot and cups, and a plate with three very plain, rather dry biscuits.

The china was infinitely familiar; and Laurie stirred his tea with a spoon he had known all his life.

“The car will be here soon,” said Mr Trevor.  He helped his wife carry the crockery through to the kitchen.  They were clearly a domestic old couple:  he donned a butcher’s apron and picked up a tea towel, drying as she washed up.  Laurie perforce followed to chat, and saw the teapot returned to a cupboard that had never been its rightful home, and the silver slotted into a different compartment in the drawer.

There was a honk outside, followed by a flurry of coats.  In the recess behind the stairs, a pair of suitcases stood; and, taking one in his free hand, Laurie carried it out to the path, where the driver took it down to the hired car.

Fumbling for some words to fill the space, he said, “You’ll be in plenty of time for the station.”

“My wife always likes to be early,” replied Mr Trevor, fishing in his pocket, “though the train will likely be late:  you know how it is these days.” 

“Better safe than sorry,” said Mrs Trevor firmly.  She went down the path.  The driver put the second case in the back and came round to open the car door for her.  “Give our love to your mother,” she called.

Almost ritually, Mr Trevor passed over the keys.  The car headed downhill; and Laurie watched until it turned the curve out of sight.

During the war, all had been simple.  Soldier or civilian, he had had his duties; and these had called him away.  Letting the house to the Trevors had been an inspired idea of his mother’s.  It could hardly have been left empty (and would have been immediately requisitioned if it had been); and the elderly couple, however little they enjoyed uprooting themselves for the duration, certainly had had a quieter, safer war than they ever would have had in their garden suburb. 

What, he wondered, was he to do with the cottage now? 

He was deeply tempted by the simple notion of coming home.  It had occurred to him as soon as he had received his mother’s letter; he had mulled it over on the train.  To return home, as he had done so many times before:  the idea was painfully sweet.  To sleep in his own bed, in his own room; fling open the windows to the familiar air; sit in the kitchen as Mrs Timmings’ baking scented the house with currant scones and apple pie.  He could get a dog—another dog—to take for rambles in the woods.

With his leg.  He sighed.

Yet should the cottage be sold?  The thought of that loss was unbearable, tearing his roots.

Or should he—could he—find a tenant, all the way from London?  Perhaps, Laurie thought, it would be best to ask for advice.   God help him, perhaps he should even ask Straike!  As vicar, his stepfather might know who could use the place.  Housing was short, now as much as ever.   _Someone_ would live here.

But it would not be him.

He drew the door closed on the brown-tiled hall with its worn carpet, and turned the key in the lock.  Down the path, he latched the gate firmly, and then made his way, a little unevenly, along the pavement.  He paused for a moment by the old apple tree to bury his face in a low hanging branch of rosy blossom, drawing in its perfume.  Then he passed on his way.

In two days, he had to get back to his desk, and the interim accumulation of forms and reports.  In his pocket lay Ralph’s letter, come by the last post before he’d left London.   _There_ was his life now—and not here, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven was not only written to complete the Applefic series, but also in honour of Remembrance Day.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally started for the "An Apple for Teacher" challenge on the [maryrenaultfics](http://maryrenaultfics.livejournal.com) LiveJournal community, which was posted on 1 September 2012 with the prompt “apple”. I wrote belatedly, assuring those who were posting their own stories that I was indeed working on my own apple fic—and said this so often that, when I posted the first part, I was quite unable to think of any other possible title for it.
> 
> At the start, my intention was to write four ficlets, one for each season. Long before I actually completed the first of them, however, the plan expanded to five stories in order to bring the year back to spring in a postwar finale. Four parts were written by Christmas of that year, followed by a long hiatus. During this time I had two further ideas come to me, requiring that I contrive to squeeze them into the few months remaining before the apple tree should bloom again in the last chapter. 
> 
> The notion of dual time—the stories covering years in Laurie's life, but appearing sequentially in the annual cycle of apples and their trees, was inspired by Alan Garner's _The Stone Book Quartet_ , which covers a century or a day, depending on how you look at it.


End file.
